


Happiness is the Truth

by displayheartcode



Series: Normal is the Watchword [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Other, spy AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-16 04:05:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2255238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/displayheartcode/pseuds/displayheartcode
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't every day a fired spy breaks into a P.I.'s place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happiness is the Truth

**Author's Note:**

> I was watching Burn Notice, and, yeah, this came to mind. I originally had a whole story planned while still never revealing the narrator's gender, but I don't think that it will be written. Shame.

            "Long story short: They fired me. I think."

            I waited for his reaction.

            I was reclining on his couch in his office that I'd broken into. I needed rest and safety after everything that had happened in London, and this was one of the few places in Boston that I knew where I could rest my eyes and not worry. Much. Then again, there was nothing like being fired in the middle of making a deal with some angry people with guns, evading those angry people with guns, and later passing out on a plane as it flew me back to America.

            Then I'd woken up in a flea-ridden motel in the south end of Boston with a couple of Feds tailing me.

            It was becoming a great day.

            Brian was still staring at me, and was doing a great impression of a goldfish. "You—you—you—" He stepped away from the couch and almost tripped on the fallen brown bag of food that was on the floor. He wasn't looking so happy at seeing me.

            "Yes, I've come back from the beyond so that I can hide at your place." I gingerly sat up, careful of my bruised ribs. I raked my fingers through my short and unwashed hair. The inside of my mouth didn't felt any better. "Got any Tylenol?"

            Brian glared his blue eyes at me. His voice became dangerously low. "Five years. It's been five years since I've found out that you're not dead. And you break into my place and ask for Tylenol?"

            Crap.

            I wasn't only speaking to a private eye, but to a well-known European thief that I'd once deceived in the midst of a passionate romance. It wasn't a good idea to fight in my state, and going up against an ex was also a bad idea. "Heh, uh, injured spy here. Injured fired spy."

            A strangled and angry noise came from his mouth. His dark skin was oddly pale but there were twin spots of color on his cheeks. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't call the cops on you?"

            "Because there's two perfectly good Feds watching this place, and it would be awkward explaining why a missing Monet is hanging above your desk." I jutted a thumb to the painting that we had stolen together in Paris so many years ago. "Seriously, how does an art thief become a P.I.?"

            "Charming people and finding things. Not much of a difference," Brian said almost dryly. "Except this is more legal. Hell, you were the one who gave me the idea in the first place."

            I tried to remember when in Paris I'd mentioned that it was a good idea for him to switch careers. Between lying to him non-stop, keeping an eye on a terrorist ring, and writing reports back to my handler, I was surprised that I even had the time for the ill-advised romance.

            You know, I wasn't going to question it. This was a temporary safe place, and there was someone that I hoped could help me get back to my feet.

            It was that, or I could go back to my mother's if I hated myself enough. Brian was pissed because of all of the deceptions that I'd pulled on him. My mom was pissed because she still had no clue that I (now no longer) worked for the CIA.

            No wonder those higher ups had dropped me off in Boston.

            "So, what's up? I saw that your secretary is on vacation when I was breaking in," I said in an attempt to start a friendly conversation.

            Brian covered his face with his hands. "I can't believe you were given a Burn Notice. You're in my house, for the love of god! Am I going to lose my visa thanks to you?"

            "Doubt it. I mean, what's the worse that they can do? Send you back to Canada?" I stood up and hobbled to a nearby window. I parted the shades and saw the unremarkable dark car parked near a fire hydrant. "Can you do me a favor and do a diversion?"

            "No."

            "Tylenol?"

            He called me something in French and I heard him walk to the other room.

            "I already checked your place for bugs," I said. "You also have any burner phones for me to use? I think I can still get in contact with my guys."

            I turned around and almost got clocked by a plastic bottle. Training forced me to get out of the way as it bounced harmlessly off the wall. My bruised ribs and my recently-lodged knee groaned as I pushed myself too hard for nothing. That had to be the least lethal projectile that I've had faced in the 48-hour period.

            "What was that for?" I picked the bottle up and had trouble undoing the child-proof cover with my stiff fingers. I shook two pills into my hand and swallowed them dry. Now a hot shower with good water pressure would be ideal. I couldn't go talk to some covert ops officials while looking like a mess. _Come to think of it,_ I checked my suit and saw the bloodied stains and tears. _I need a new suit, too._

            "That's for being nothing but a damn liar when we were together." Brian crossed his arms over his chest and was leaning against the doorframe that led to the back room. "Next will be for making me think you were dead. After that it'll be for breaking into my place."

            "Glad to know that we're having an open discussion about this." I held the bottle out for him to take, but he wasn't making any movements toward me.

            "How do I know that this is even real?" There was no mistaking the bitterness in his voice.

            "I was in London. I was calling for an extraction when some supplies never came. They said that they had a Burn Notice on me, and I was left in an abandoned subway tunnel with some very angry terrorists." I pointed at the tear that almost split my left sleeve in half. "This is from almost getting my arm torn off." My bruised ribs. "I'd narrowly missed an actual subway." The bruises on my face. "The fight in the actual subway. Throughout all of this my guys never came in to get me. I was left on my own until I was dragged off to the airport. Then I woke up in Southie of all places."

            "You were Burned." Astonishment filled his face and all of the anger and bitterness dropped from his voice, showing more of his accent.

            "It could be a mistake. I hope." My stomach clenched violently and I felt sick. An accident was slim. A Burn Notice was too detailed and powerful to happen accidentally.

            "What did you do?" Brian asked. He was looking at me differently now. He was backing away slowly. He'd seen me in action before and he knew what I was capable of.

            I held both hands in front of me as a pacifying gesture. "Nothing! I have no clue why they did this! For all I know this could be one huge misunderstanding, or this could all be an op, or…" I was running out of excuses.

            Dammit, I was tired and sore from yesterday, and painfully confused about what was going on. My only job was ripped under my feet and I was stuck in a city with my ex and my estranged mother. I couldn't get out of the city without getting arrested. I had no money to my name because my accounts were frozen, I couldn't get a job because I had no official job history, and many people were watching me. I was burned from the system and I had no clue why. In the spy game of Us vs. Them, I was officially one of Them. Bad things could happen to Them and no one else would know.

            A tense silence filled the small office room. Neither of us spoke and I had no clue what was going through his mind. I was trained to read people, to sort of the liars from the truth-tellers, to anticipate every possible move...but I could never get a good read on him.

            "I'm sorry," I said, hoping to sway him. "I'm sorry for everything that has happened. I'm sorry for getting you involved with the CIA again, I'm sorry for lying to you, I'm sorry for making you think I was dead, but I need you right now."

            More silence.

            "I hate you sometimes," Brian said quietly.

            "I know."

            "It crushed me when I thought you were dead."

            "I know."

            "I swear I was going to kill you when I found out that you were alive."

            That was pleasant to know.

            "Oh," I said.

            "You're sleeping on the couch." He turned away and walked to the back room where the kitchen was. "You can pick up the mess on the floor while you're at it."

 

-

 

            The worst part about being a spy? The days after a mission.

            Your body needs to recover from whatever hellish experience you've put it through, you need to mentally put yourself back together and get ready for the next mission, and then there's the mandatory paperwork that never ends.  

            That was one of the few good things that came out of my Burn Notice. I could hypothetically relax and slowly submerge myself into having a healthy and stable (if heavily restricted) life.

            Instead I was adding the finishing touches to my family's chicken soup recipe.

            Brian watched me from the kitchen table, and had a manila envelope opened and spread out. He paid the pictures and the report little attention, and was almost bemused to see me in a domestic setting. Ever since I’d crashed here, I was making illegal calls from a burner phone, and was reading over his old cases out of boredom.

"If I'd known that you could cook," he said, "that would have made our time in Paris much more bearable."

            "This is one of the few ways for my mom not to kill me." I bit my tongue and carefully poured the soup into two plastic containers. I knew interrogation tactics that only involved a flashlight and a cup of water, but for my mom it was food and some good company. Brian was a charming young man that could do multiple accents, and I had her mother's chicken soup all ready to eat. There was no way that I was going to end up buried in the backyard six feet under next to my dead turtle.

            "Knew that sob story about you being an orphan wasn't true," he grumbled. He pushed his reading glasses up his nose, and resumed reading a case file. It was the usual about a husband suspecting that his wife was cheating on him. I was helping him with it because of boredom and his secretary was on her honeymoon. "Got any more family I should know about? Brothers? Sisters?"

            "Just me and her." I snapped the tops on and the celery and onions and carrots floated to the surface. "Dad died when I was a kid."

            "I'm sorry."

            "Over it." The words came out harsher than what I'd intended. "Anyway, I just need you to keep her busy while I make sure that there aren't any bugs around." There was more to my plan, but I wasn't going to tell him that I was going to get my dad's old U.S. Marshal badge to forge into my own. I could imitate a detective and various other kinds of law enforcement, but having an actual badge with little modification would be better to have around.

            And it was a whole lot easier to get around if you had a suit and a badge. People would believe that you’re anyone.

            Brian closed the file and took his glasses off. "Fiancé?"

            "Sorry, you're going down a notch and being my boyfriend for the afternoon." I shrugged and carried the containers to him. My ribs ached but it was better to have some heavy bruises than a broken bone. "We'll cover the story in the car ride there. Is everything all set?"

            He picked up one of the containers and almost looked sad that I was giving away perfectly good soup. "I used some flour and glow powder and tape."

            I happily smiled at the idea of highly trained agents unknowingly leaving footprints around for us to find with a cheap black light.

            Life was sweet at times.

            "You hid the Monet?" I joked.

            Brian rolled his eyes and threw me my coat with one hand, "Please, I've had homicide detectives and art consultants in here. They've never noticed."

 

-

           

            My mom opened the door.

            She saw me.

            And she slammed the door on us.

            "I can break in later," I amended, changing my plans immediately. "She won't notice."

            "That's your mom," Brian said.

            "As opposed to..?"

            "Make up to her." He knocked on the door. "Have a healthy relationship for once in your life that isn't built on lies."

            "I thought that's what we're working on?"

            Mom opened the door again, sour-faced, and...she looked old. I've had only shared brief conversations over the phone during the last few years, but seeing her face-to-face... Her dark hair was all gray and streaked with white, and lines were near her eyes and mouth, and with wrinkles on her face...crap. I was already squirming with guilt and it almost wasn’t fair. My mom had gotten old and I wasn't there for her whatsoever.

            (The Child of the Year award proudly goes to…)

            "Hi, Mom!" I thrust one container out to her as a peace offering. "Sorry for missing Passover again."

            Mom gingerly held the chicken soup as if it was an explosive. "I see that you finally got time away from work."

            All of those birthdays, family gatherings, and holidays flashed before my eyes.

            Great. More guilt.

            "Can we come in?" I linked my hand with Brian's and tried to smile like I was making a regular visit.

            Mom opened the door to let us in, and stepping inside was painful. I was suddenly overwhelmed with memories. My childhood home surrounded me, and I could easily remember each story behind the pictures hanging in the walls, the dent in the wall from my superhero phase, the lumpy sofa with the floral patterns... I was so lost in thought that I didn't hear my name being spoken.

            "What?" I asked, feeling very disconnected. I tried to bury the memories deep down, but the stress and anxiety from the Burn Notice had made that hard to do. I had completely forgotten about the emotional factor into doing this. That was a really lousy move on my part.

            "I was asking you to introduce me to your friend," Mom answered almost thinly. Her dark gaze never left Brian. "But it appears that he remembers me."

            He made a funny noise.

            Well, so much for the smooth ex-art thief helping me out.

            "How—" I said.

            "Collins," Mom addressed Brian with an odd tone of superiority. "Is there a reason for why you're here before I kick you out?"

            I let go of his hand. "Really?"

            "You don't have the same last name, and she scares me." Brian stepped behind me, loosing every bit of his charm. The American-as-apple-pie accent that he was planning on using never came. "Hello, Detective Vidal. What a funny coincidence this is."

            Mom straightened her spine and turned her glare on me, and I could see the intimidating homicide detective and the formidable role model from my childhood. "Kitchen. Now."

            Brian gave me a quick, reassuring squeeze of the hand before giving me the second container of chicken soup. "Bon chance," he said and he slowly backed to the door.

            "No. You're staying, _dear_ ," I said. I shot my hand out and grabbed him before he could make his escape. I reeled him in close. "If I'm going down then so are you," I whispered in his ear.

            "That's hardly fair," he argued. "You have no idea what fear your mother puts in me."

            Mom coughed. "Your friend can leave. This is a family matter."

            "Stay," I corrected, turning to face her. "My boyfriend is staying because I need him right now."

            "Why would a museum curator need a private eye?" Mom's tone was dry.

            This was becoming a wonderful mess.

            "You okay with checking?" I asked Brian.

            "I'll get on it." I passed him the detector and pointed to where the landline was. It was the best place to start. He went to start sweeping the house while I took up the part about keeping my mom distracted and calm.

            "We need to make sure everything is clear," I whispered, staying away from the picture frames that were behind me. Listening devices could easily be planted on them. "I swear that this will all make sense."

            Mom pinched the bridge of her nose, her nostrils flared. "This better be a good one. Why would there be—"

            _"Shh!"_ I raised a finger to my lips.

            "Bugs!" Mom hissed. "Why would there be bugs in my house?"

            "I got fired."

            She was quick with connecting the dots: Why I would rarely speak about my job, always traveling, the injuries, and now the bugs. "What did you do?" she asked in the same aghast manner that Brian had done.

            Why was everyone thinking that I had done something horrible? Jesus Christ, that was going to get old fast.

            "Mom, this is going to get cleared up, I'm going to get my job back, but we need to be safe right now." I looked and saw Brian giving me the thumbs up from the kitchen. I gestured to the living room for him to continue. "Now have you seen any strange activity here or at the precinct?"


End file.
